


O My Heart

by ptolemy



Category: Free!
Genre: Historical, M/M, Mermaid Mythology, The continuing saga of jealous three/four-ways, Year 1614, mermaid haru, smut to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5695363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptolemy/pseuds/ptolemy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1614, and Rin is preparing for his first trip away from Japan on a ship destined for foreign trade routes; but first, he has a favor to ask of a certain merman. [HaruRin, SouRin, and SouHaruRin, eventually; multichapter]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fish Out of Water

Rin cuts through the water with his small boat just as the sun began to dip in the sky, casting the shore in deepening shades of orange. He rows strongly, eager to beat the sun and get back before he is missed, but for a moment between strokes, he admires how the water looks like glittering fire, throwing the land into shadowed background. 

As Rin rows into a cove of rocks far from where the fishermen dropped his boat, he still instinctively checks for any prying eyes, his heart thudding in his chest. Despite how many visits like this he’d done in the past, the stakes are higher now. He must not be seen.

He moors the boat on a small beach where the cove arches into a wide-mouthed cave, and pulls off his sandals and tabi socks, hiking his hakama up to his knees. With that done, he wades into the water, curling his toes into the sand and then over the rocks underneath until the water reaches his calves. He takes a deep breath, once more admiring the warm-hued waters, and then he opens the small bamboo box he brought from his boat. He pulls out a chunk of meat, fried mackerel, and holds it over the water.

“Haruka,” he says, throwing the fish into the water with a small splash.

There is a moment’s quiet as the meat sinks, and another as the ripples spread and are quickly washed out by the tide that splashes over Rin’s knees and wets the ends of his hakama. And then there is another moment, and another, and another.

“I can catch my own fish,” says a voice, and Rin exhales over his thundering heart. 

“Haru,” he says, grinning despite himself as a head of short, dark hair crests the surface of the water a short distance away, staring placidly at him.

“Rin,” replies the man, Haru, as he rises from the water, revealing pale, naked shoulders. 

“It’s been years,” Rin says, not sure what else to say.

“Three,” Haru responds. He tosses his hair and then disappears under the surface of the water again, and Rin jerks forward. He starts to call out when the head pops up again, this time closer and with a mouth of sharp teeth closed around the piece of fish. Rin exhales and smiles, crouching down to hold out the bamboo box.

“You still like them fried, right? I used a little extra sauce, too,” he says.

Haru looks at him for a long moment, his eyes still as blue and piercing as ever, scanning Rin through. Then he disappears under the water with a splash and rises again, right in front of Rin. And this time, in the shallows of the water, Haru’s shimmery, scaled fish tail is dragged up onto the earth as well, kicking up clouds of sand under the water as Haru reaches into the box for another piece of fish. Rin’s eyes drift to the tail for a moment, and he swallows. Still real. 

Haru eats the cooked fish with his hands, sauce covering his fingers. He seems quietly intent on his meal, but Rin catches those eyes flickering over him, clearly looking him over the same way Rin is doing to him. 

“It is me,” Rin says unnecessarily. Then, awkwardly, “I’m sorry. It’s been… so long, but it is me.”

“You have new clothes,” Haru says finally, dropping the last piece of mackerel into his mouth. His teeth are jagged like a shark’s and they close on the fish with ferocity. Seeing them makes Rin’s tongue dart over his own teeth instinctively, nearly drawing blood on their sharp ends.

“I have a new rank,” Rin says carefully. “You know, a new job. That’s…why I’m here.”

Haru is licking the sauce from his fingers, but he still manages to give Rin a fairly withering stare meanwhile. He doesn’t say anything, so Rin uncomfortably adds, “I need a favor.”

Haru’s hands plunge into the shallows, moving as if to de-beach himself back out into the water. Without thinking, Rin makes a grab for him, dropping the bamboo box to hold Haru’s shoulders in both hands and stop his retreat. “Please!” he says, more desperately than he expected. “There will be a ship traveling from Japan, and the route they’re taking—they’re cutting right through that strait, even though they know—please!”

He holds on even as Haru looks at him with those eyes, with a look filled with annoyance and maybe disappointment. Then it softens, fades into something more like doubt, or maybe regret. Rin stares at him, not sure what his own face is doing, hopeful it is pleading.

At last the moment breaks. Haru’s eyes drift down to the bamboo box floating in the water, back to nonchalance. “I can’t decide anything. You know that.”

“You can ask the others,” Rin presses insistently. “You can ask them—to let this one go. Just this boat. Please don’t sink this boat.”

Rin can’t help it; his eyes also wander, moving down to Haru’s tail again, which is swishing in the water much like a cat’s would while it makes up its mind. “I’ll be on it,” Rin adds, reluctantly. “I’ll be on the boat, too. If that still matters.”

Haru lifts a hand from the water towards Rin’s face and Rin flinches, but Haru just pushes his wet, cold fingers through Rin’s long hair, hanging loosely around his neck for once instead of rigidly tied in its usual topknot. Rin was worried that Haru might not recognize him with his hair up, that he might not come. It was ludicrous thought he now realizes, but he couldn’t take any chances.

“You’ll be on the boat?” Haru echoes, softly. Those eyes trace the curve of Rin’s hair as he fluffs it with his hand, pressing his fingertips into Rin’s scalp.

“I thought,” Rin stammers, trying to look anywhere else without turning his head, “I wasn’t sure that would be enough of a reason…”

“You’ve been on a lot of boats,” Haru says flatly. “None of them have sunk yet.”

Rin presses his lips together as the implications of this statement hit him, and he jerks his eyes back toward Haru’s with a thousand questions on his tongue, but Haru has already pulled back his hand. Haru puts both hands into the water again, this time pulling his body and tail just to Rin’s left, onto a flat rock that juts above the surface. He sits upright on it, his tail drifting in the sands, and leans back with his bare chest basking in the dimming sun. Rin swallows down his questions, and a thousand other urges that swim to the surface unbidden. He thought three years had been long enough, but every fantasy, every memory flashes through him, fresh and burning.

“Tell me about the ship,” Haru says, and Rin jerks to life, eager for the distraction. He turns and wades, half-stumbling, back to his boat where he grabs a paper lantern and a folded parchment. He lights the lantern, then carries it and the parchment back to Haru’s rock, setting the lantern down beside him.

“It’s a trade ship,” Rin says eagerly, grinning at Haru. “A red seal ship. Do you know what that is? The shogun grants them specially to certain merchants engaging in overseas trade.” His words are too fast, barreling from him, and he unfolds the parchment and shows Haru a painted version of the ship he has been admiring every day on the docks for a week. It is like no ship he’s ever seen before, built in Nagasaki but strongly influenced by foreign design. Even the crew he’d seen putting the finishing touches on it and loading the goods was a mix of Japanese and foreign faces and voices, and he tells Haru all of this enthusiastically. 

“Can you imagine, Haru? Other shores, where there are other languages and customs, and I’ll get to see them. I can eat food I’ve never eaten before, swim in their ocean—“ He trails off, some of the enthusiasm fading from his face. “That must seem boring to you, Haru. You probably see foreign waters all the time.”

Haru looks at Rin blankly, then slides his gaze back out to the ocean, his tail splashing a little on the surface. Rin watches that face, as unreadable as ever, and swallows down his guilt.

“Not that it matters out there, right?” Rin adds, forcing a small laugh. “They say our captain is going to be Portuguese. I wonder if they even have mermaids in Portugal?”

“They usually confuse us with some local ancient god,” Haru says dryly. “They fear us, but they don’t usually try and eat us.” Haru glances back at Rin, who scrunches up his nose sulkily. 

“You know perfectly well we don’t do that either. Anymore,” Rin says, folding up his parchment roughly. “No one even thinks mermaids are real anymore, or they wouldn’t—“ Cold lips press against Rin’s, interrupting his tirade, and Rin flinches and draws back without thinking. Haru is staring at him with those infinitely blue eyes, no expression on his face save a certain softness that weakens Rin’s defenses.

“When does the ship leave?” Haru murmurs, his breath implausibly warm against Rin’s lips.

“A week,” Rin whispers back. Haru nods once, then leans in and kisses him more firmly, and Rin leans into it, helpless. Haru pushes his tongue past Rin’s lips, running it over Rin’s jagged teeth, and the feel seems to please him. He hums softly, then withdraws, licking his own lips with hooded eyes.

“Don’t be afraid, Rin,” Haru says. Rin stares, mouth agape, but before he can form a response, Haru turns and effortlessly pushes off of the rock again, sliding back into the water. His torso disappears, quickly followed by that tail, which whips against the surface and splashes Rin with water before disappearing. 

Rin clenches his teeth, pressing one hand against his mouth in irritation. He can feel his face burning bright red, and even after three years, he knows he gave Haru exactly the reaction he’d been looking for. Still, he thinks, his breath coming harshly against his hand, so did Haru, in the end. When his body has calmed down and starts to shiver with the cold of twilight, Rin picks up his lantern and returns to his boat. One week to go.


	2. Chapter 2

How many more years were left? How many years before the endless nothing? It’s easy to lose count of things under the water, but Haru is always acutely aware of the passage of time. Soon, he won’t have to track it. Soon, it will slip from his fingers, and he will be ordinary.

But until then, he is just drifting, just waiting. Waiting to hear his name called across the water, never drifting too far…

“Haru,” a voice calls, “Haruka.”

It calls…

“Haruka!”

Haru’s eyes open. He is floating on his back just beneath the surface of the water, the moon full and bright overhead, split into a thousand glittering pieces by the rippling waves. His view dims as Makoto’s eyes, greener than fish scales, hove into view upside-down above him, watching him with apparent concern.

“Haru,” Makoto repeats, sounding both relieved and more anxious for seeing him. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Haru responds, the vibrations of his underwater speech flat, neutral. His gaze slides away from Makoto’s as he rolls his body into a backwards somersault. He sweeps past Makoto’s tail, wider and more powerful than his own, before he completes his turn and pushes away hard, down towards the ocean floor.

“You disappeared from the group migration,” Makoto says, following after him. “We thought you were feeding, but couldn’t find you in the usual spots… you went as far as the shore?”

Haru’s tail flips, so that Makoto has to work to keep up. He can feel the water disturbed by Makoto’s fin, the swell and push between them, but it isn’t enough to keep them far apart.

They both know why he’d been at the shore, the only reason he would ever get that close. Haru closes his eyes, his body twisting and curving as he aims into the shadowed depths. He isn’t really trying to get away (they both know that isn’t possible; Makoto would always find him in the end), but he doesn’t want to answer obvious questions. His pack knows better than to try at this point – only Makoto and Nagisa would follow if he wandered, and they know where he always ends up.

Together, Haru and Makoto move deeper and deeper, gaining speed despite the weight of the water pressing heavy on their backs. Makoto catches up to Haru, their motions coordinated as they spin together along a jutting wall of rock extruding from the ocean floor.

“Is Rin well?” Makoto asks at last, somehow managing to communicate concern, frustration, and resignation in the tone of his vibrations all at once. Haru glances at him, fingers brushing over the ends of seaweed that are starting to creep up around them, but his gaze dips just as quickly.

“He’s fine,” he replies at last, knowing he owes that much. Then he twists sideways so Makoto can’t see his expression, adding, “I need to see Miho. Now.”

“Huh? Now?” Makoto’s vibrations are suddenly sharp with alarm, his expression clearly distressed when Haru glimpses it again mid-turn.

“He—I have a request. Of the group,” Haru clarifies, kicking his tail hard downwards and scattering rocks and debris from the rapidly rising ocean floor. He arcs upwards again, spinning with an easy grace propelled by his momentum and forcing Makoto to twist away to avoid getting caught in the pull of the water he leaves behind. He loves this kind of swimming best, when the ocean whips into a blur of color and light, schools of fish parting before him like iridescent cloth as his lowest and most instinctive vibrations call out ahead of him: _I am here I am home move aside I am home._

He soon realizes that Makoto is struggling to keep up, and he slows with a lazy backwards loop to give Makoto time to pull up alongside him again, to let the water pass through his gills more slowly.

“Haru,” Makoto says, with a strained pitch to his vibrations. “The group wasn’t happy when you disappeared. You may want to let me tell Miho—“

“Tell me what?” The higher pitch of vibrations comes from above, almost gentle in their ripple through the water, but Makoto still flinches as if he’s been struck, his body swinging behind Haru’s automatically. Haru pulls his torso upwards and kicks forward to stall in the water as Miho descends from the surface about them, her lithe frame and delicate tail silhouetted against the moonlight. As she comes closer, Haru sees a salmon squirming in her hands, her fingers digging into its flesh to keep it from escaping. She draws level with them, her expression calm, but betrayed by hardness behind her eyes, pulling her cheeks and jaw taut.

“Haruka,” she says, her voice like sugar over acid. “Nagisa and Momo are sweeping the hunting grounds looking for you. You make everyone in the group worry when you disappear like that. I know you don’t want that, now, do you?”

“Sorry,” Haru replies, his gaze dipping for a moment, though he can’t help but think that Miho knew where to find him almost as quickly as Makoto did. As if sensing his thoughts, Miho tilts her head and says, “There’s an old adage that goes: there’s more than one way to catch a fish.” With her tail swaying below her to keep her upright, she repositions the squirming salmon between her fingers. Its alarmed sounds, small patterns of short vibrations, are quickly and abruptly stifled when Miho’s fingers dig into the right spots to quiet it and then snap its neck. The _crack_ is more violent than Miho’s tone, but both manage to make Haru’s skin crawl, and he can almost feel Makoto cringing behind him.

“So,” Miho says, looking between them, “what do you have to tell me?”

“I need a favor,” Haru replies quickly, before Makoto can intercede and redirect Miho’s attention onto him. Miho’s eyebrows go up, but she doesn’t respond right away, instead lifting the fish to her mouth and tearing open its underbelly with her sharp teeth. The sudden presence of blood in the water gums in Haru’s throat and churns his stomach, still full of Rin’s fried fish.

“I need,” he starts, chokes, then steels his shoulders and tries again. “I need the group to stay away from the Cold Pass. There will be a boat.”

“A boat,” Miho echoes, an expression passing over her face that Haru doesn’t recognize, but is somewhere close to greed. “It’s been a long time since boats have dared to use the Cold Pass. Why would we let one go?”

Haru presses his lips together, frowning. He knows Miho, like Makoto, has a habit of asking questions that don’t need answering, but he also knows that not answering would test Miho’s patience, and risk his request being denied. “Rin,” he says finally, “will be on the boat.”

Miho makes a soft sound, almost a sigh if there was air in her lungs, more disappointed than surprised. “You really must let that boy go, Haruka. Or drown him. It’s been so long, we thought maybe…”

“Please,” Haru interrupts, sudden impassioned. He senses Makoto tense behind him, feels every pull of the current between himself and Miho, the blood of the salmon coloring the water.

Miho gazes at him for a long moment, considering. “You know,” she begins slowly, “why we have granted your wishes for so long, Haruka. Your kin—we would do anything for you, as I know you would do for us. But this,” she gestures upwards, “is long overdue. Let it end, Haruka. One way or another, this is the last time. Otherwise…” Her gaze softens, and for a moment she seems gentle, silk over steel. “Otherwise your kin will end it for you, and free you from this tether.”

The last time. Haru nods, accepting the deal. The undercurrent of Makoto’s vibrations worry the water, unsettled by reckless compromises, but Haru knows—has known—that he has waited long enough. It was no longer a matter of how long, but _when_.

* * *

Sousuke holds his breath. He is very good at holding his breath, a practice he started very young when things got too overwhelming. When he suffered from seasickness aboard his father’s ship but refused to tell him; when he stepped off of Japan’s shore for the last time; when his mother passed away—Sousuke held his breath and counted, until the moment passed or his vision reeled, whichever came first.

And now, his feet treading paths shaped differently by his memories, Sousuke is holding his breath and counting the years since he last heard the Japanese language used all around him instead of just between himself and his father, crammed between Portuguese, Chinese, and English on a tiny wooden boat. He can’t see anything he recognizes outside of the shape of the shore, but he knows the path, and he knows he will find home if he follows it. He soon leaves behind the noise of the docks, the crowds of people thronging trade ships, unloading wares and selling them just as quickly. He walks through an area peppered with small huts, further and further apart, his eyes glazing over each in turn until they snag on a distinct shade of auburn red paint trimming the edges of a particular hut near the shore. A nearby dock is likewise trimmed in shades of red, faded and chipped by the wear of sun and sand, but still so distinct and familiar that Sousuke’s already-held breath catches in his throat and nearly chokes him.

He exhales, long and slow, shakes his head, and approaches with thunder in his chest.

He considers the hut’s front door for a heartbeat, but the sound of the ocean draws him away, and he walks to the end of the dock instead. There is no boat mounted there, but Sousuke expects the small fishing craft is in use at this hour of the morning. The wooden dock creaks loudly under his weight, but stands steadily; it is Sousuke who rocks slightly, his body still used to the sway of the ocean, the unstable surface of his boat. He watches the waves cresting and falling in slow rhythm, mostly still, until a sudden burst of color snaps his gaze towards it, like waking from a dream: red against the endless blues and grays.

He waits—there, again, a movement of dark red breaks the surface for air before descending again. Of course. Sousuke smiles to himself. He raises his hand to his lips and calls out just as the red reappears, using the voice he normally reserves for hailing crew members:

“Rin!”

The smudge of red stops, bobbing for a moment between waves, and then a face turns back to Sousuke. Even at a distance, Sousuke can see that grin. As the face disappears again, Sousuke crouches on the dock and undoes his polished shoes, setting them aside with his socks. He sits on the edge of the dock, rolls up his pants, and dips his toes in the water as the face disappears and reappears closer and closer in an easy rhythm.

“Sousuke!” Rin calls when he finally draws near, treading water up to the dock. He reaches up and grabs the edge, notching his foot into one of the dock’s legs and hoisting himself up in one smooth motion. His body brings a surge of ocean water up with him, and he swings himself around and plops down on the dock beside Sousuke with a wet _smack_

Sousuke and Rin reach for each other in one motion, hands clasping together, their faces split into identical grins. “I can’t believe you’re here,” Rin says breathlessly, breaking the hold to push his dripping hair back from his face. “It’s been too long. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Sousuke, his eyes drawn briefly to the sharp edge of the teeth that crowd Rin’s grin, shakes his head, forcing his gaze up to Rin’s. “It was a surprise,” he says. “Besides, not many ways to send a letter from the deck of a ship you’re on for three months.”

“Tch,” Rin replies dismissively with a laugh, bumping shoulders with Sousuke. “Three months? From where? China?”

“Portugal,” Sousuke replies. “China’s much closer.”

“Portugal,” Rin echoes, his voice soft as he imagines the unseen foreign shore. Sousuke might even call the look dreamy, and he smiles despite himself.

“Ah!” Rin exclaims, breaking the reverie to grin at Sousuke. “This is perfect, Sousuke! I just got a new position—“

“I know,” Sousuke says between Rin’s words, his look pointed.

“With a—huh?”

“A Portuguese captain,” Sousuke finishes the neglected thought with a laugh, as Rin’s expression changes from confusion to dawning realization.

“But—“

“The shogun wanted someone close to home,” Sousuke says, his tone nonchalant even as he is unable to smother a coy grin. “Between you and me, I think the relationship between the Shogunate and the Portugeuse is tiring. The shogun reached out to my father instead, but he had to run his own route to Goa, so…”

“So?” Rin prompts, his expression a mix of disbelief and unbridled excitement. Sousuke has relayed this news a thousand times to as many people, but in that moment he is certain that Rin’s expression is the one he was truly waiting to see.

“So, I’ll be captaining _The Heart of the Sea_ out of Japan. Hope you’ve prepared your deepest bows.”

“ _Sousuke_ ,” Rin exclaims, giving Sousuke a two-handed shove in his excitement; they’re both laughing now and Rin’s face is full of so many things that, after such a long separation, Sousuke almost asks him to slow down, to give Sousuke time to enjoy them—the pride, in particular, beaming out of Rin’s face for both their sakes, is enough to burn heat through Sousuke’s chest and ache somewhere in his throat.

“Rin,” he starts to say, but his eyes snag on Rin’s teeth, sharp and flashing as he speaks; Rin is babbling now, something along the thread of _leaving so soon but of course she understands and Gou has promised to leave prayers every day, just can’t believe it’ll be you and me, just like the old days—_

“Rin,” Sousuke says loudly, half-laughing at how difficult it is to suppress Rin’s enthusiasm—his energy seems to pull him upwards until he’s nearly bouncing on the dock. “There’s lots of time for that. But— Rin, I— I wanted to invite your father, as well, but when I put in the request—“

“You’ll want to see Gou,” Rin says, suddenly, loudly, his grin now so wide that Sousuke can’t help but stare at those teeth again. There is no deviation in their perfectly sharp points. “Here we are going on and on about nothing and I’m not even dressed—“

“Rin.” Sousuke has said the name now more times in a minute than in years, and each time it feels a bit more like a plea. “You never said. In your letters…”

“Yeah, well, what was I supposed to say?” Rin snaps, and Sousuke’s stomach turns as Rin’s mood swerves downwards, palpable. “He died. He died for the shogun and it was honorable and there was nothing to say about it, so why would I?!”

Sousuke’s mouth opens and closes again as he finds no good answer. In an instant, the years open up between them like a gaping wound; how many now? Ten? They might as well have been a thousand for how easily the Rin of his memories, of hundreds of letters and brief reconnections on land can fall away now. He wants to ask more questions— _how long ago? How are you surviving? What about Gou?_ —but he swallows them and their ensuing accusations down. This is Rin. His Rin. And the longer the silence lapses between them, the more Rin’s anger seems to twist into desperation and swallowed tears, and Sousuke finds his own becoming pity and comfort just as quickly.

“Rin,” he starts to say, his hand coming to rest on Rin’s arm, but it feels like an intrusion and they both look away from each other instead.

“Come inside and eat,” Rin says at last, breaking the silence. His voice is cracked, but neutral, his gaze focused intently on the horizon. “There’s plenty of time—for that. All the time in the world.”

And Sousuke, his gaze on the hut with the red trim, wishes he believed it.


End file.
